The Opposite of Want
by AkamaiMom
Summary: She is conflict and confusion and passion. She's not what he wants - not what he's able to want. But she's what he needs, even if he hates himself because of it. Tom/Rachel-centric. I didn't intend to ship them, let alone write them, but this just kind of happened. I hope you don't mind. (And, apparently, this story needed another chapter. Again-I hope it's okay. . .)
1. Tom

The Opposite of Want

 _Complicated._

 _He hadn't wanted this, hadn't wanted to feel any of this._

 _Hadn't wanted to notice her._

 _He'd steeled himself against her, against those haunted hazel eyes, the sensual curve of her lips. He thought he'd inured himself to the pull of that raging intelligence, the passion that had driven her around the world in search of the cure. And then he'd looked across a crowd a few hours ago and seen her - really seen her - as if for the first time. Happy. Relaxed. Joyous. Literally breathing hope into the hopeless._

 _Surrounded by people who knew what she'd accomplished, but didn't know what it had cost her._

 _Complicated_.

Tom tossed the envelope she'd given him onto the table next to his bed, shrugging out of his coat and staring at it for a long beat before folding it neatly over the back of a nearby chair. Training died hard, he supposed, even when it looked like the mission might be waning.

The room was nice. Not luxurious - the only room in the entire place fitting that description had been rightfully given to the President. But it was larger than his bunk on the Nathan James, and the shower was definitely better. And the bed -

He'd avoided thinking about the bed, to tell the truth. The last time he'd slept in anything this large had been the night before they'd sailed out of Norfolk, when he'd pressed his wife deep into their mattress, run his hands along her softly familiar form, and promised her he'd come back.

He reached a hand out and skimmed the comforter, the fine fabric catching on the dry roughness of his fingertips. Darien had always twitted him about his hands. She'd been a bit of a neat-freak, and his propensity towards heavy callouses, gunpowder under his nails, and the tiny nicks and bruises that came from his work had amused her as much as it had irked her. She'd always tucked an extra container of hand lotion into his pack before he'd reported. He'd tried to remember to use it.

He'd usually failed until they were a day or so out of home port, and by then it was too late.

The guilt welled up within him again. _Too late._

He hadn't even seen her before she'd died. Hadn't been able to say goodbye to the woman who had stood by him through training and school and deployments and the moves that had wrenched her away from family and friends. She'd given him two children, made him comfortable and whole, and assured him that he was good enough. She'd valued him in a way that he'd thought impossible. His dicey relationship with his father hadn't given him the support he'd craved, especially after his mother had quietly succumbed to cancer a dozen years before. Darien had made the difference in his life, had grounded him. And he'd missed her-still missed her - especially since there had been no time to grieve.

Still, he wondered. If he'd made different choices, given different orders. . .

Sighing, Tom closed his eyes against the pain that shot through him. He'd done this to himself a thousand times, and the end result was always he same. No matter what he might have done, Darien would still be dead, and he would still feel guilty about it. Trouble was, he had no idea how to move on, or when. How, exactly, he was supposed to go on, he had no clue.

Grasping the corner of the comforter, he yanked it back, exposing the clean, white sheets beneath. Lifting a hand, he tugged his tie loose, unfastening the top few buttons of his shirt. He toed off his shoes, then sank down into the softness of civilization.

So. Chief of Naval Operations. He wasn't sure how he felt about that. There were pros, but also a butt-load of cons. He'd have to consider carefully before giving his answer. Of course, in the end, it was POTUS's call, but Tom liked to think that Michener would value his wishes.

Once he figured out what the hell his wishes were.

Scrubbing a hand over his clean-shaven jaw, Chandler groaned. He hated not knowing what was coming next - being directionless. That was one thing that had steered him towards the military - despite the convoluted relationship he had with his father. He liked the community, the camaraderie, and the purpose in the service. Even when he hadn't actually been saving the world, he'd been helping keep it safer.

And then he'd been charged with keeping _her_ safe, only to find his soul imperiled as a result.

 _They'd been sitting off the coast of Guam for three weeks, surreptitiously monitoring Chinese naval operations in International Pacific waters. The Chinese ships and subs had gotten braver as the games had continued, frequently drifting closer than had been comfortable. As an XO, Chandler had gotten antsy._

 _"Calm down, Chandler." From behind him, Wright had sounded mildly amused._

 _"It's just galling, Sir." Tom turned, facing his CO. "They're ignoring established conventions."_

 _"Yeah." Wright had sighed, steepling his fingertips at his waist. "They are. But since we know that they're trying to goad us into a response, the prudent and right thing to do is to sit back and continue monitoring. That's the mission."_

 _Chandler had frowned, looking at Commander Wright from beneath lowered brows. "I thought that the mission was to protect the United States."_

 _"And we are." Wright had nodded. "By not doing what the Chinese want us to. By not responding, we don't give them the impetus to go further. You've got a kid, right?"_

 _"She's little. A toddler."_

 _"Right. So, what happens when she has a temper tantrum?"_

 _Darien had explained that one to him. He'd been gone so often during Ashley's babyhood that he'd returned for an extended leave to find her deep in the the throes of the Terrible Twos. Tom's wife had figured it out already, and had explained it to him. "You ignore the tantrums. When you don't respond, then they don't get any benefit from their bad behavior."_

 _"Same here. The Chinese are throwing their weight around. Thumbing their noses at us, trying to get a rise out of us."_

 _Chandler nodded. "Having a tantrum."_

 _"So, when we ignore it, it defeats their purpose." Wright had reached out, gripping Chandler's shoulder in a fatherly way. "Come on, Tom. Let's go get a cup of coffee."_

 _Tom had turned back out towards the water, where he could still see foreign ships on the horizon. "I think I'll stay here, Sir. But thank you."_

 _"All right." Wright had taken a step closer, increasing his pressure on his XO's arm. "Just a piece of advice for you, Son."_

 _Tom had canted a look back at his Commander. "Sir?"_

 _"Don't get too caught up in the work. Don't become myopic. You lose perspective, that way, and you'll be in a crap-load of hurt." The older man's normally good-natured expression had turned serious. "Don't let the mission consume you."_

Tom closed his eyes, taking a deep breath. He'd tried. He'd fought. He'd denied.

He'd kept his wife - his dead wife - in his mind's eye every time he'd looked at _her_. Each time she'd brushed up against him in the ship, whenever she'd looked at him, challenged him, exulted with him, he'd tried to think of Darien. But still, _she_ was there. As different from his wife as night from day.

And it had been a damned long time since this kind of need had welled up within him. The kind of need that made him lie in bed and control his breathing - his body - his imagination. He'd always maintained a strict mastery over himself and his responses. But now - he could barely force himself to control the thoughts that seethed in him like the currents of the deep.

It had been a long time since he'd felt this conflicted - this confounded by the mission. At least, he'd tried to tell himself that she was just the mission.

He'd lied.

 _Consumed_.

 _Complicated_.

He'd clung to honor in the past months, to duty. Reminded himself time and time again of the mission, his position, and of his vows. He'd considered time and again the consequences of failures - professional and personal. He'd dismissed the twinges he'd felt, the spears of desire that had shot through him. He'd reminded himself to grieve.

But still, she'd been there. Watching him. Challenging him. Insinuating herself into his existence just as her cure had taken root within the bodies of those she'd touched.

He'd started dreaming about her. About learning her secrets, smoothing her roughness. Tangling his fingers within the silk of her hair and tugging gently as he tasted her. About holding her lithe/frail form against his body and figuring out just exactly what surged beneath her prickly surface, and whether it would feel like the healing he needed, or the destruction he craved. Whether her passion would temper the violence brewing within him, or ignite it.

There had been words said - not as many as needed to be exchanged, granted - but words, nonetheless.

"Is this really what you want?" She'd asked him. She'd been angry, and hurt, maybe. Self-justified in her actions. Proud. She'd stood there in the room like some medieval queen and challenged him.

So he'd answered as honestly has he'd been able to. Conjuring up his response from the screwed up mess of truth-lies that threatened to overwhelm him. "This has never been about what I want."

Because how could it have been? He still didn't know her. Didn't truly trust her, if he was frank about it.

But he wanted her. Desperately. And hated himself for it.

Tonight, she'd come to him in the hallway. She'd known where his room was, just as he knew the location of hers. She'd been dressed up - it had suited her, even though he found her more provocative in the jeans and t-shirts he was accustomed to. She'd been open, and a little more free. Not flirty - not available - but edging towards both. His body and his mind had surged in response, desperate for the release he knew - he was certain - he would find there.

He was desperate to take her. To have her. To sink himself in her depths, yet not quite ready for the shame he would feel afterwards.

Tom groaned, covering his face with both hands, breathing deeply. He could still smell her, although he was sure that was part of his traitorous imagination. And although he wanted his wife to be alive, wanted his children close and safe and well, wanted the mission to be complete and the world to be righted, wanted with his entire being to be able to let her leave him behind - he knew that what he wanted was impossible.

He _needed_ this woman. Needed to touch her. Needed to know her. Needed to lose himself in the conflicted mess that she was, and try to make sense of the consequences. Needed to peel back the layers, and discover who and what she was at her core. To discover if she'd tremble as he did so. Needed to fill her just as she'd invaded him.

Sitting up, he leaned forward, balancing his elbows on his knees. A stabbing in his side reminded him of the shrapnel behind his liver - a fitting metaphor if there ever was one for Rachel Scott. Sharp and deadly and threatening, and buried so deep within him that to remove her would cause more agony and bloodloss.

He leaned forward, burying his face in his roughened hands, his fingers digging into his scalp as if he could force her from his memory, banish her from his thoughts.

But closing his eyes just brought her back. In the hallway, the lace teasing at the gentle line of her collarbone, her hair falling in a riotous tumble down her back and across her shoulders. She'd seemed invigorated about leaving St. Louis, about her new adventures. He'd been happy for her, even as his heart had fallen at the prospect of her leaving. Maybe they'd both get some perspective. Maybe being separated would be the relief he sought. He could build barriers. Construct some walls.

He'd miss her. He pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes, exhaling harshly. "Damn it. Damn it all to hell."

Hell. He was already there.

Footsteps hurried in the hallway outside - someone shouted. Rising, Chandler moved towards the door. Something was up, something that sounded serious.

And unbelievably, he smiled. He could use something else to think about. Needed a break from the thoughts that had been plaguing him. To not think about her.

To not obsess about her. To not let his body respond to the thought of being with her. To not need her. If this new crisis could help him expunge her from his soul, then bring it on.

His hand grasped the handle and turned it, flinging the door open and heading towards the chaos.


	2. Rachel

**The Opposite of Want**

 **Rachel**

 _I'm a canon girl. Since I don't know what Season 3 has in store, I'll end this here. I'm not going to speculate on what might happen, although I may write some episode tags based on previous episodes._

 _One thing that has not been established in the series is who Michael is, exactly. I'm not going to assume that he's Rachel's boyfriend, although it certainly appears that's what he is. Who knows? He might be Rachel's brother. For the purposes of my "Last Ship" universe, I'm leaving that story a little open-ended._

 _But here's Rachel's side of this particular story. You asked for it. . ._

She'd never done well with people.

Not that there weren't a great many people for whom she had a tremendous amount of respect and admiration - Dr. Hunter, for example, and Dr. Tophet. Many other professors and scientists she'd worked with over the years filled places in her head and, if she really considered it, her heart. She could recite names, degrees, positions, and the advances they'd made that were greatly beneficial in her own work, and therefore in her life. Their losses stung, still. Even after Quincy's betrayal, she missed him.

Admittedly, however, people in general confounded her. Their propensities, their proclivities, their worries and their needs. Their obsessions with the small, and the inane. She'd tried watching a popular television show once recommended by one of her lab assistants - something about famous people dancing in a contest. She hadn't recognized a single name, and although the art of the dance itself had been admirable, she'd lost interest before the first commercial break. She simply couldn't see the appeal in something so mindless.

Long, long ago, a shrink had informed her that she had an issue with forming meaningful relationships. She'd silently glared at the psychiatrist from her customary spot on his sofa.

"Do you have any close friends?"

"My colleagues and I are very close."

"Not colleagues. I'm talking friends. People with whom you spend time outside of work."

Rachel had smiled, sardonically, she knew. Condescendingly. "You're assuming that I do things other than work."

"And that's part of your problem."

Rachel had leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees. "How is that a problem? My work is essential to the world. What I do saves lives."

"But, in the end, what's it good for?" The doctor had settled back further into his reproduction Queen Anne chair. "When you won't have anyone to share your own life with once all the other lives have been saved?"

She'd had no answer for that, and she hadn't returned for her next appointment, nor the one after that. And then Ebola had been reported in the Congo and she'd packed up and left all of those ridiculous questions behind.

It was the disease that she was fascinated with - the people harboring the disease had always been secondary. Rachel couldn't explain it in any other way. Curing the disease, figuring the symptoms, ridding the world of another deadly pathogen had been her fulfillment.

Helping the people? Well, she'd already established that there had been problems there. People failed her. People left. People betrayed. People died.

People turned into ghosts, and ghosts became her demons.

And she was bloody tired of demons.

She shifted against the wall of the ballroom. They'd settled on-shore in a hotel near the St. Louis Arch. They'd all been surprised when one of the people in the crowd asking for a curative dose had turned out to be a Federal judge. The President's swearing-in had seemed gratuitous and superfluous, but it had been the right thing to do. Even Rachel could see the burgeoning enthusiasm that the attendees had found at the prospect of moving forward.

Honestly, she'd wanted to skip the ball. The Judge's daughter had insisted, however. Rachel had returned from scouting possible lab locations in the city to find the dress hanging from her doorknob, along with a small bag containing styling products and a pair of coordinating shoes. It would have seemed churlish not to acquiesce. Still. She had felt out of place in the crowd, and so had taken herself out of it.

"Tired of dancing?"

Rachel allowed a quiet smile as she turned to greet Tex. He'd cleaned up for the occasion, trimmed his beard, combed his unruly hair back behind his ears. He'd even drummed up a suit from somewhere. In a casual way, he was a handsome man - made more so by his boundless bravado and easy smile. She wished that she could be attracted to him in the way he'd wanted. It would have been simple to have fallen for him.

If not for _him_.

"I haven't danced, actually." Rachel reached up and pushed her hair behind her ear. "I'm not really much for this sort of thing."

"Now, that, I can believe." Tex leaned against the wall next to her, on one shoulder, his body turned towards her. "Although, if I'm allowed to say so, it's a damned shame."

She let her expression ask the question for her.

"You need to let loose a little, Doctor Scott." His beard twitched as he grinned. "And since you're the most beautiful woman here, you're depriving the party of its greatest decoration."

"Is that how you see me, Tex?" She looked down at the sandals on her feet. They were a little large, but better than her boots. "As nothing more than a bauble? As a streamer, or a disco ball?"

He shook his head slowly, his grin fading a little. "You know I don't, Rachel."

"Tex - I - "

"I'm going to stick close to Kathleen." He nodded towards the crowd, where his girl was doing an awkward, laughing two-step with Miller. "She needs me now. Wants me around for the first time in ages."

"You're her father. She's a lucky girl."

"She seems happy now." Tex smiled, watching his girl. "She'll be fine."

"She will. You'll keep her safe."

"Kinda wish I'd found her sooner. Before the business with her mom." He straightened, then turned, shoving his hands down into his pockets. "Girl that age needs a mother."

Suddenly uncomfortable, Rachel closed her eyes, pressing her lips together. After that moment in the hallway at Avocet, she'd actually considered it - had felt in his kiss how he'd wanted things to be - had briefly wondered if she could feel the same way.

But another kiss had been in the way. More desperate, more potent - just _more_. Given in the heat of the moment, bloody and dirty and raw, on that damned Russian ship. Despite the danger and the uncertainty and the fear that had lain like a brick in her gut, she'd found her traitorous body responding to his touch, his taste. The power he constrained. Even handcuffed and wounded, he'd seemed invincible.

She'd never felt that before. Never been certain that she'd be willing to die for someone else. Not even with Michael.

Especially not with Michael. Who hadn't valued her enough to try to live.

"I'm sorry, Tex." Her words emerged in a near-whisper. She looked up at him, catching his perceptive gaze. "I'm so sorry. But I think that you know what I mean when I say that you deserve more."

"Ah, now, Doctor Scott." He shook his head, rocking backwards on his heels. "You and I both know that it doesn't get much 'more' than you."

"You're so sweet, Tex. I appreciate you more than I can say. She touched his arm. I don't know how I could have done any of this without you."

He regarded her for a moment. "So, you're leaving, then?"

"I'm needed to establish labs and teach protocols in some other locations. Deal with some isolated outbreaks." She inhaled deeply. "To do my job."

His easy smile faded a bit, his look turning speculative. "Remember down South? When the Captain went after the sub and sent us on shore?"

Knowing where he was taking the conversation, she simply nodded.

"Don't leave things unsaid again."

She looked down at her own hands, clasped at her waist. "He's not ready to hear them."

"He will be." Those sharp blue eyes narrowed, and he turned towards her, grasping her shoulders. "He's grieving, still. It's a confusing process, and he's not a simple guy."

"No, no he's not."

"Anyhow." He smiled again, his hands dropping a little, chafing at the lace on her upper arms. "Keep in touch, and all that."

She couldn't help it. Stepping closer, she leaned up, smoothing her palm against his beard and pressing a chaste kiss to his mouth. Drawing back, she smiled at him, a little sadly. "I'll miss you, my friend."

He blinked a few times, grinning as he nodded towards the dance floor, where Kathleen had transitioned into a line dance of sorts between Bertrise and a younger sailor. "I've got a dance to cut in on."

Rachel watched him go, smiling as he offered a gallant arm to his daughter. A tiny stab pricked her soul, as she remembered her own father, for whom dancing was a threat, a wife's life was a trial of faith, and the thought of traipsing the length of a continent to find his daughter would have been more of a burden than a mission. Reverend Scott, in fact, hadn't even looked for her when Rachel had escaped to Maputo and from there made her way to America. She hadn't seen him since the day she'd left him, and still didn't know exactly when he'd died.

People. Ghosts. Demons.

The crowd on the dance floor writhed like a school of fish, a beautiful chaos of color and darkness, young and old, the cured and the newly-made safe. Rachel watched them without really seeing them, surprised when the music stopped and the crowd suddenly dispersed to reveal _him_ sitting across the room from her. Watching her.

She'd never been afraid of Captain Chandler. Not in the beginning, when he'd threatened to throw her samples overboard in the wake of the Russian attack. Not when he'd returned, bloody and blood-thirsty, from the monkey hunt in Nicaragua. Not even when he'd confronted her about Niels, his morality battling with her skewed sense of justice. He was a study in self-control, a man whose currents ran deeper than the oceans he sailed. She'd prodded and poked and threatened. Demanded, provoked, and denied. He'd risen to her baiting once - maybe twice - shouted at her, disapproved of her, denied her.

Still, she'd never been afraid of him.

She'd been exhilarated by him. In turns been fascinated, enraged, challenged, and soothed. Thrilled, encouraged, hell - even stimulated. Reassured. Enthralled.

Made safe.

That realization was new. Rachel was accustomed to fighting and confrontation. Her entire life, since escaping the wilds of Mozambique and arriving in Maputo, had been clawing her way towards her goals, forging paths for herself rather than expecting them to be opened for her. She'd never once been taken care of by someone else. At least, not until she'd stepped onto the Nathan James and found herself under _his_ watchful eyes.

The same eyes that had just captured hers from across the ballroom. Ice blue and intense. Too intelligent by half. A gaze which managed to unnerve her even as it threatened to set her soul on fire.

He sat apart from the rest of the crowd, his back towards a corner, one elbow leaning casually on the table next to him. Slowly, his fingers slid along the smart edge of his hat's brim, back and forth, as if he were caressing a lover's skin. He was watching her - not being particularly secretive about it, either. And damned if his mouth weren't tilting upwards slightly, as if he were enjoying the view.

And damned if she didn't shiver in response. That mouth - that look, those fingers, with their controlled strokes, all of it reminded her of when she'd felt those lips against hers, his body hot and powerful beneath her palms. Rachel felt her body rise in response, an ache forming deep within her core. Regardless of what that idiot shrink had said so many years before, she _could_ form attachments with people. She obviously just hadn't met the right ones before now.

She broke eye contact before she could betray more than she wanted, before she could humiliate herself. Because, in all honesty, it wasn't just the Captain that she was going to miss, it was the family he'd forged from the rough amalgam of his crew. She'd known men with resounding charisma, men who could hold a crowd in the palm of their hands and convince them all of their divinity. Men of charm and style and smooth manners with whom she'd stolen a night, or a week, or a year. Yet, she'd never known a man like this. A man who led by example and by the sheer force of his spirit. True to his word, his strength begotten because he was so sure of his mission, because he knew with absolute certainty who and _why_ he was. A man for whom his sailors would walk through Hell merely because they believed that he'd go there, too.

She'd never been afraid of him. But she'd been terrified for him. Rachel wasn't conceited enough to believe that she could have found and concocted the cure without Tom Chandler standing near, quietly protecting her. He was a weapon, pure and simple. Lethal and beautiful and not to be handled indiscriminately.

And she wanted him. Wanted to know what it would feel like to be free of the conflict that raged between them and surrender to the currents that surged beneath. She ached to know the feeling of his hands against her, to know if it would be as powerful as that moment after she'd found the cure, when he'd gathered her close and practically inhaled her into himself, his face nestled in the crook of her neck, his breath hot against her throat.

Wrenching herself back to the present, Rachel chanced a look up at him, surprised, yet oddly gratified, that he was still watching her. Broad shoulders relaxed against the back of his chair, long legs crossed casually, those fingers still moving along that brim. Above the starched edge of his Service dress collar, she could see his pulse thrum steadily in his throat. She'd never wanted anything in her life more than to press her mouth to that steady beat, to see if she could drink it in.

Nonsensical fancy, she knew. Because even if he desired her, he didn't want to desire her. And even if he stood right now, crossed the room, took her hand, and led her to his bed, another woman would lie between them, holding his heart.

People into ghosts. Ghosts into demons.

"Damn." Rachel breathed the word, forcing herself to look away. Suddenly, she felt stupid, and ostentatious, and overblown in this damned dress and these damned shoes with her hair in its damned curls. She wanted to flee - to run back to her room and scrub her face clean, climb into Michael's old t-shirt and burrow beneath the covers and forget that tomorrow all of this would be gone. She'd be leaving St. Louis and he'd be staying, and she wouldn't have him watching out for her anymore.

And then she damned herself for a fool for craving him. For wanting this problematic, formidable, conflicted man at her side when shed never needed anyone at all.

Sounds blared through the halls and walls from the bar next door. A sailor's shanty, sung raucously. She recognized Tex's voice, the ringleader, as usual. She couldn't help but sigh.

Why couldn't it have been Tex for whom she ached?

Footsteps. Slow, steady. Direct. They neared, and she hazarded a look up. He'd tucked his hat in the crook of his arm, and somehow she knew that his attention had never wavered from her. He'd focused in on her like an objective; a goal. He slowed as he drew close, and she could smell him - the combination of man and starch and strength that never failed to make her quiver.

"Doctor Scott." He nodded, pausing. "You didn't dance."

She had to clear her throat to answer. "Neither did you."

"No." That slow shake of his head - mesmerizing. "It wasn't right, yet."

"Maybe next time, then."

That smile again, why did it seem more like a promise? He canted his head to one side, his eyes making a slow, deliberate study of her features. "Perhaps."

"Then it's settled."

He raised a brow with a hint of a nod. "I suppose it is."

But there was more in his expression. Pain. Grief. Desire. Guilt.

And Rachel wished that she'd never met this man, never known his touch, his appeal. Because of all of the demons haunting her, he was the one she couldn't exorcise.

"Your crew seems to be enjoying themselves." She indicated the bar with a tilt of her chin. "Aren't you going to join them?"

He shrugged. "Probably not. The last thing they need is for me to spoil their fun."

She smiled, understanding his meaning immediately. "You're the cat."

"Excuse me?"

"'While the cat's away - " She lifted a brow, leading him to the phrase's conclusion.

"The mice are, indeed, playing." His smile was rueful. "So, I'll leave them be."

"I'll see you tomorrow then." _And then I'll say goodbye._ _I'll say goodbye and then I'll go on with my life and try to purge you from my being. And I will fail, but I'll still try._

His voice grated across the slight distance towards her, a near whisper. "Tomorrow."

"Good night, Tom."

"Good night, Rachel." He made one more sweeping perusal of her and then stepped past her into the hall.

 _She'd never done well with people._

 _People became ghosts, and ghosts became demons._


End file.
